


Lights off!

by toughcandy (HardCandy)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, Drug Use, M/M, Male Slash, Stripper Sherlock, Strippers & Strip Clubs, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-05
Updated: 2013-08-13
Packaged: 2017-12-22 12:20:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/913147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HardCandy/pseuds/toughcandy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He moved lightly, seemed to be playful. He was pulsating in rhythm with the music. On the stage he was free and alive, he was breathing. When they first met, Sherlock looked rather bored and breathless. John’s initial nervousness had started to dissolve as time passed by, but now it returned as a lightning. It forked through his body and made its exit at the fingers."<br/>During his university years Sherlock works as a stripper, and soon a new bartender arrives, called John Watson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> There are songs recommended in the text for each concerned part for the story being more enjoyable.  
> And a huge thanks for my beta, DWforlife!

[p r o m o   v i d e o](http://youtu.be/shofzeX6vFQ)

 

 [♫ Mo Cash! – Vegas Audio Ninja](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KnPxYCyk-2w)

Stepping onto the stage, Sherlock closed his eyes. With slow but confident movements, he walked towards the end of the stage and let the collar shirt slip off his shoulders.  
  
The increasing sounds of sighs and screams, surrounded him like the deepest fog behind which the club seemed to collapse. No limits, no rules behind the invisible bars of the endless universe. Nothing left but the colorful, contourless spots.  
  
He united even the smallest movements with the rhythm of the music; his hip was slewing and as his knees hit the floor with a soft thud, arms reached out to grab him.  
  
No names, no faces, just fingers and wrists (bones of the hands; phalanges, articulations – all the same, no difference). Skin on skin, which was ticklish particularly around his hip. As he laughed, the pulsing crowd writhed again. He let the music take control over him and stretched himself on the ground in the most sensual way.  
  
Sighs, screams, laughs.  
  
Hands on his waist. Hands on his inner thighs.  
  
He grabbed one of them, led it down on his chest, his belly, even lower and lower, then he released it and gripped his own groin.  
  
Sherlock slipped off the stage and cut his way across the tables.  
  
There was a woman with brown hair, eyes sparkling with tipsiness. She waved some money with one hand. Sherlock grabbed it and laced their fingers together. Obediently, he swung a leg over hers, sliding onto her lap, and as she was waiting breathless for their lips to meet, Sherlock drew apart.  
  
He closed his eyes again. He wished he was on the outside looking in with insensible, cold stoicism; to be able to get out of his head and rule the chaos. His body was about to burst with adrenalin. It tightened and was on fire, his blood hammering in his ears mixing with the sound of the music.  
  
He had opened his fly earlier, so the miss of the underwear could be easily seen. As he stood up with his back to the audience he pulled down the jeans further, and women blustered all at once, rapturously.  
  
With a light, graceful movement, he stepped back onto the stage. A soft smile lingering on his face, he shifted his glance from one woman to another. He looked at them questioningly and pointed at his jeans.  
  
Hands lifted up in the air. Someone shouted, 'Take them off!'  
  
In the very second when Sherlock tore off the last garment of himself, the lights went out, and no one could see the bank notes, which were once pinned under the waist of the jeans, flying up into the air around him.  
  
"I hate this shit" Sherlock sniffed as he was crossing the aisle to reach the changing rooms.  
  
He tried to get rid of the Vaseline* on his belly using his shirt, but couldn't obtain the desired result without dousing himself. He turned on the shower and, without waiting until it was at the right temperature, stepped inside.  
  
He let the warm water flow and enjoyed the way the sound blocked out every other noise. The pounding rhythm didn't reach him here. There were no screams, no knocking of glasses. Just the deep silence and the water, which washed away the burning marks of touches left on his body.  
  
With a towel tied around his waist, he stumbled out from the shower. Mirrors girdled him, enlightened with spot lamps. 'Ridiculous, just like in some theatre,' he thought. His pupils were wide, like black holes sitting in his eye sockets and they watched nothing else but him. He saw himself in every dim reflection.  
  
He slid a finger onto his wrist: quick pulse, dry mouth. Familiar symptoms. Nothing abnormal but he had to check himself, just like he did every time he took pills.  
  
The Tiger slapped his back as he rushed into the changing-room, the others following him.  
  
"End of the shift!" someone shouted. "Look at this!"  
  
The man, Anderson (aka Andy), wore underwear stuffed with money some of which spilled out when he threw himself down on the beige leathered couch.  
  
Sherlock hated that couch. He always stuck to it. It was uncomfortable, and ugly. Now he watched Andy and trying to imagine how it felt as the sweaty skin pressed against the leatherette.  
  
"Okay, boys" Jim was the last to arrive. He wore black trousers, and nothing else. He hadn't stripped. As a host, he barely had the chance for it, but when he did everyone went crazy for him. "You boys were awesome! Especially you," he pointed at the Tiger. "Be here at six tomorrow, got it? Otherwise the chief will chop your willies off, and you'll have nothing to sway on the stage."  
  
The bar closed exactly at four o'clock am. The place became irrationally silent and empty. Sherlock liked that fragile calmness the best, when the sweltering desire didn't pollute the air.  
  
"Tiring day, wasn't it?" Molly put down a tray onto the counter, and took off her black apron.  
  
"Indeed."  
  
"Well, we had quite a lot of guests. Uhm, if you'd like… I could take you home… By car. You know, it's snowing, and I thought you might not want to walk…"  
  
Sherlock glanced questioning at the girl. She began to fold her apron shamefacedly.  
  
"Thank you, but I'd rather walk."  
  
"Uhm, okay. Of course! See you tomorrow, then?"  
  
Sherlock didn't get to enjoy the refound solitude that Molly's departure brought for long because shortly after she left, Greg Lestrade showed up.  
  
"Chief!" Sherlock stifled a yawn. "How's today income?"  
  
"Bad as always. Though, maybe it's a bit better than last Friday."  
  
Lestrade threw his small booklet onto the counter and leaned next to the younger man. Sherlock knew he had to ask – no, in fact he didn't have to, because he could deduce everything from the tangled hair and the circles around the eyes, but they expected him to ask. Lestrade expected him to ask.  
  
"Carol?"  
  
"She confessed she's had an affair." Lestrade turned his back to the counter. "She wants a divorce."  
  
"It'd be better that way."  
  
"Maybe."  
  
"It would. If you hadn't listened to your unnecessary sentimentality last time, you'd have her off your hands by now."  
  
"Okay, you know what?" Lestrade rounded the counter and stepped behind it. He filled two glasses with whisky and gave one to Sherlock. "I won't let her to destroy my club." He sealed the confident statement by draining his drink. "It's not sentimentality, it's business. If we divorce she gets the half the club, and she wants to sell it. There's already a purchaser, Irene… someone."  
  
"Adler." Sherlock twirled the glass with his fingers and watched how the lights broke on the tessellation markings. "She has two stripper bars, and she came here last week."  
  
"I haven't met her."  
  
"She just wanted to sum up the situation, and I spotted her. She was too excited, yet spent too long sitting right here. Too conspicuous. Even if she proved herself to be generous."  
  
"How much did you get?"  
  
Sherlock eyed his drink for another second or two, then he decided to follow his boss's example and he drank it in one go.  
  
"Two hundred."  
  
"Bitch."

  
***

 

  
"So, how is it going?"  
  
"I went through every advertisement and I found nothing. I could get a job as a kitchen helper at some restaurant I suppose, but the pay is ridiculous. And my pen ran out."  
  
John threw the traitorous pen onto the table and shoved aside a newspaper on which there were lined through advertisements. He could barely hear his own thoughts over the noise of his universities buffet, but right then he was happy for it. He feared that if he'd be alone with them, they'd destroy him.  
  
"I should ask for a loan from Harry" he mumbled.  
  
"I might've found something for you." Mike Stamford grabbed his shoulder. "I've heard they need a helper at the Cashmere Club."  
  
"Cashmere… I don't know that place."  
  
"That's fine. My friend works there, maybe he can get you in."  
  
"I would be very much obliged."  
  
"I'm supposed to meet him now actually. Come with me."

 

John grabbed his stuff and recited a small prayer in his head. He followed Mike across the park to another building at their university. By the time they reached it, John's cheeks had been crisped red by the wind. He tried to cover his face with his scarf, but it was a useless attempt. In the end, he gave up and only focused on the task: make the best impression on Mike's friend in order to get the job.  
  
The lack of money raged over his head like huge stormy waves, and by this point he was willing to accept almost anything.  
  
Bills, the costs of the uni, maintaining Harry's car that John borrowed, bills, bills, and to top it all off, John even had to take care of the other little nothings like food.  
  
He needed a job, desperately.  
  
"How was yesterday's dinner with that biologist?" Mike asked when the front door closed and the snow didn't assault them anymore. "What was her name? Eva?"  
  
"Sandra."  
  
"Right. So? Did you…?"  
  
"What?" John frowned. "God, no! I'm not gonna shag her right on our first date! I'm not meeting her again, anyway."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"I don't know. We are just not a good match."  
  
Mike rolled his eyes with a smile. After another five-minute walk, they finally found the wanted person.  
  
"There he is!"  
  
John followed Mike's finger and tried to figure out who 'he', in the crowded corridor, might be.  
They stopped next to a man standing alone.  
  
"Sherlock, this is John Watson."  
  
Sherlock gave the shivering John an analyzing look as they shook hands. He even let himself show a soft smile.  
  
"Sherlock Holmes." His fingers slid up on John's wrist, turning it side to side. "You have no experience, but you'll get the hang of it soon. You don't smoke, that's an asset but… you're not good with late nights. You've got stamina that comes in handy, and you haven't got the luxury to be queasy about jobs right now. Are you patient towards people? Don't answer that. You are, obviously. You're a medical student."  
  
John glanced from Sherlock to Mike, frowning. With some force, he managed to release his hand from Sherlock's grasp.  
  
"When did you two talk about me?" he asked dubiously.  
  
"Never." Mike shook his head. "Sherlock's always like that. You can't keep a secret from him."  
  
"Ah-ha. And uhm, what kind of job would it be?"  
  
"Tomorrow night at 7:15, come to the Cashmere Club. Get some shoes that are more comfortable."  
  
"Wait!" John tried to hide the thin lace of surprise in his voice. "I don't even know what my duties will be! I haven't said with a word that I'm accepting it!"  
  
"You will, if you need money. 7:15. Cashmere Club."

 

***

 

The neon title shone brightly in John's eyes as he stood on the street and stared up at the building.  
  
Male stripper bar.  
  
The shiny words seared themselves into the back of his skull. They continued to flicker innocently and the only thing stopping him from turning and fleeing back to the safety of his home right then and there was the mountain of bills that awaited him. As he finally worked up the nerves to push open the door, he swore he could feel pair of judgmental eyes on the street watching him.  
  
Pleasurable warmth greeted him inside, along with a lovely sweet smelling something and quiet background music. John had never been in such a place before; he couldn't even imagine what was waiting for him here. He grabbed a flyer in the cloakroom that propagated today's show.

 

 

"Come on" he whispered, and let out a ragged laugh.  
  
He really started to fear the offered job. Images popped into John's mind of himself in red underwear with a pair of boots and a cowboy hat.  
  
"Hell no…"  
  
Under the gaze of the cloakroom attendant, John shifted awkwardly. He wanted to leave before it was noticed that he'd ever been here, but he couldn't move. He needed the money. As he continued his way into the bar he could only plead with whatever diety that happened to be listening that he'd be allowed to keep his clothes on.  
  
"John? John Watson?"  
  
John twisted around and found a tall, curly haired woman stalking towards him.  
  
"Yes, but how do you-…"  
  
"Surprisingly enough, men don't often come here. Freak said you were comin'. You're late."  
  
She tossed a black apron onto the counter and indicated with a hand for John to put it on. He hesitated before obeying  
  
"I know, sorry, traffic jam. Freak?"  
  
"Holmes. I thought you'd let him down and I would have to do all of the work again. Come on, what are you waiting for?"  
  
The woman stepped out from behind the counter, but John just looked at her, uncomprehending.  
  
"Actually I don't know what kind of…"  
  
"Saloon bar. Now."  
  
Shelves filled with drinks towered over John, and for the hundredth time that evening he found himself feeling unsure. Eventually, sweet relief spread through his chest when he realized that if he decided to take off his shirt, it would be of his own decision.  
  
"You're new." A woman smiled at him. "My name's Molly. Molly Hooper."  
  
"John Watson, and yes, I'm new." He smiled back. "Very new. I've never been to… this sort of place before."  
  
She nodded. "It's a bit obvious. Don't worry. You just have to take care of the guests here, but during the show we serve the drinks. It's going to be a calm time for you."

Two young girls joined them in the next moment, but John could manage it perfectly.  
The truth was, he didn't have any experience as a bartender and he needed Molly's help to identify what the rum was, but thanks to his sister; John could make the best Mojito in London.  
  
"Not bad, newbie!" Molly laughed when the guests stepped away. "The recipes for the other cocktails are over there, see?"  
  
"Thanks." John grabbed the little blue pocketbook to flip it through. As he did, the crinkly haired woman from earlier slipped behind the bar to grab a bottle of champagne and some glasses before rushing away again.  
"Who is that?"  
  
"Sally Donovan." Molly's soft smile turned into a grimace. "She isn't the most pleasant, sometimes. When we don't have a regular bartender she's in charge of the job, and lately…"  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Well, the salary was cut, so Carl quit, and Sally hates to stand behind the counter all night long."  
  
"The salary was cut? Bloody great…" John only shrugged in response to Molly's questioning look.  
  
"I'll go and inform the boss that you arrived."  
  
"Wait. Is Sherlock here?"  
  
"He always comes at 8 pm."

 

Except Sherlock didn't show up at 8 pm. John didn't care, he didn't even know what he would say to him. The job engaged his discursive thoughts. At around a quarter past 8, women began to arrive in large groups.  
  
Right at 8:30, the soft background music stopped and the lights went out, only the stage remained lit. When the women had wandered away from the saloon bar, John allowed himself a small rest.  
  
A man walked onto the stage in tight leather jeans and, in spite of the comfortable warmth of the room, he wore a fur neck coat which whirled around his legs with every step. Theatrical elegance surrounded him and his nude chest shone in the sharp light. Arms wide open, he relished the burst of applause. Then the man began to speak in a silky voice.  
  
"Aren't you cold, my ladies? It's a bit chilly in here, isn't it?" He hunched as if he was cold. "Don't you think it's time we warmed things up?"  
  
The crowd rumbled. They raised their glasses one by one. John felt as if he were a perfect stranger there.  
  
"Let's turn on the heat!" The man shouted. "Come on, ladies, louder! That's it! Get your purses, and reward our cowboys , they took a long road here just to please you. My ladies, here are the Western Stallions!"  
  
The dazzle lamps blew out to be replaced by a tender blue light. The fur coated man disappeared, and six others appeared

**[♫ Save a horse, ride a cowboy – Big & Rich](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S9ZbuIRPwFg) **

The happy rhythm resounded in the club. It even swallowed the screams from the crowd. Six cowboys trotted to the edge of the stage with their back to the public and John almost burst out laughing when they turned. Sherlock was on the right side, wearing a white cowboy hat, worn-out jeans and a leather waistcoat. A holster was attached to his belt.  
  
But then he changed. John saw every movement of his lithe form. He moved lightly, too lightly when compared to a cowboy but was nothing like that man who John had met at the university. Here, he seemed to be playful. He was pulsating in rhythm with the music. On the stage he was free and alive, he was breathing.  
When they first met, Sherlock looked rather bored and breathless.  
  
He pulled a woman closer with a lasso, picked her up and made *a turnaround* himself. He set her down on the ground and squirmed between her legs.  
  
He left his boots, his black underwear and his hat on, but nothing else.  
John's initial nerves had begun to dissolve as the night wore on, but now they had returned in full force. They forked through his body and made their exit through his fingers.  
  
By the middle of the show, he had completely forgotten about his duties.  
When Sally poked his shoulder, sometime later, his face flashed red with embarrassment. He gave silent thanks for the dim light.  
  
"Three Daiquiris, a Grasshopper and two Cosmos, in case you've stopped drooling."

***

  
After the show, Sherlock, with a pleasurably numb feeling, threw himself down on the hated couch to count his bounty. The air was heavy with the smell of alcohol and perfume. Despite it he breathed in deep breaths to help his flushed body relax. His chest was burning: it lifted and sank quickly. Though his last number being pretty slow-paced he still gasped as if he had been running for miles.  
  
The ecstasy pills pushed him on. They gave him the adrenaline he longed for.  
  
After a quick shower, he put on his trousers, his hat and rushed back into the club.  
  
John was standing behind the counter. They couldn't see each other while the guests stampeded past the bar, but Sherlock had seen how John had been watching him while he had been dancing.  
  
Lestrade flounced out from his office with a troubled look just as Sally closed the front door. It was barely past 4 o'clock.  
  
"I'd like you not to screw up the orders next time!" he grunted on the phone. "Yes, I know what time it is, but tomorrow's supply is going to be late because of you."  
  
As he passed by Sherlock, he beckoned to Jim and, without putting the phone down, he started. "There's a job for Friday, a hen party and you two are going. Jim, find someone to take your role for that night here. Please, arrange it in time."  
  
He gave them a sheet of paper and walked up to the counter where he poured a glass of whisky for himself and argued into the phone.  
  
John continued clean up. When he was finished, he waited. He waited because he didn't know what to do, or if he even wanted to do anything at that bar ever again.  
  
He wanted to talk with Sherlock. Thank him for this opportunity, but it wasn't a job that suited him. On top of it all, he had made quite a lot mistakes (You weren't terrible, though you weren't really the best either. Oh, no, I mean...), and he had been discomfited all night long amongst the half, sometimes fully naked men.  
  
"It doesn't suit me." He let out a deep sigh when Sherlock walked to the counter.  
  
"What doesn't?"  
  
"This job. This place. Look, I'm grateful, I really am, but…"  
  
"You want to escape?" Lestrade turned to face him, laughing. He put his mobile into his pocket. "Just when I'm about to hire you?"  
  
John sighed again.  
  
"I'm an awful bartender."  
  
"Practice makes perfect. I need people, I need you. And according to what I've heard," He shot a quick yet telling glance to Sherlock, "You need this job. I'm willing to negotiate about your payment, but just Fridays. We're closed Wednesday and Thursday. Right then, night lads!"  
  
Molly and John were the last to leave the Cashmere. The wind felt even colder after the sweaty warmth of the club, John pulled his scarf up to his ears.  
  
"I hope," Molly started, "that you'll stay."  
  
"Honestly, I don't know yet. I don't fit in here."  
  
"That's what I thought on my first day too. Still do sometimes… but you'll see what a great group it is, and you'll like it."  
  
"Thank you for trying to convince me. Guess we'll see each other on Friday."  
  
John was relieved as he finally got into his car. He was drove slowly because it was once again snowing and, moreover, there was a dull ache in his muscles. His arms were in protest against any work. The thoughts of his warm bed spurned John on. He wouldn't have had made his morning lecture, anyway.

\--------------------

*Vaseline is used to make the skin shiny, and it makes the muscles of the body more visible as well.

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

  
The sharp lights danced off Irene Adler's long black hair as she crossed the Cashmere Club to its private office. Without knocking, she stepped in so silently Lestrade didn't even notice her at first. When he finally did, he stretched and tossed away the files he had been reading.  
Carol was sitting in front of him with her legs crossed. Irene nodded to her, and a small off-handed smile appeared on her face.

  
"Gregory you know, that this place is gripping, don't you?" Her melodious voice sounded toady. "It's so easy to fall in love with."

  
"Just to set the record straight, Ms. Adler." Lestrade leaned on his elbows, tried to fight the urge to pull her up for the informal style. "I'm not willing to sell the Cashmere. Not now, nor in the future."

  
Carol, with a light movement, took the hairpin out to loosen her hair.

  
"Half the club is mine." She stated. "And I have every right to sell it."

 

"And the other half is mine." Lestrade laid the emphasis on the last word. "Yes, you have every right to do so, but since I'm a co-proprietor I enjoy high priority as a buyer."

  
"We're all aware of you can't pay." Irene smiled.

  
"Because Carol asks for a gratuitously large amount of money." Lestrade turned toward his wife. "Would you like to tell us why?"

  
"To get the money, of course. As an independent woman, I need to take care of myself."

  
Lestrade crossed his arms in front of his chest, he stared at his shoes.  
"What about your lover?"

  
"Don't you start again! Ms. Adler sure doesn't care about our private lives."

  
"Just like I don't care about her offer."

  
Lestrade stood and left the room.

  
***

  
On Friday morning, John arrived late to his anatomy lecture. The alarm clock had made a valiant effort at waking him. John thanked it by throwing it across the room.  
John didn't remember how or why he managed to get out of the bed in the end. He had fallen asleep around three o'clock in the morning, when he gave up the duel with the essay he had been writing.

  
Being startled out of sleep at 7:20, he knew that there was no point in rushing, he wouldn't make it in time.  
By the time he reached the hall, he had missed half of the lecture.

  
"Long night out?" Mike inquired, smiling, as they were heading out from the classroom.

  
"I had a passionate date with the biochemistry essay."

  
Mike snorted. "I talked with Sherlock yesterday."

  
"Oh."

  
"What is it?"

  
"Nothing, just… God, Mike!" John grabbed his friends arm to draw him aside. "You could have warned me that it's a…" He lowered his voice, "a strip bar."

  
"You wouldn't even have gone then."

  
"That's the point. Can you imagine how awkward I felt?"

  
"You'll get used to it, and then you won't."

  
"Have you ever been there?"

  
"'Course not, but it's not the point. You needed a job, right?"

  
John nodded, leaning against the wall. He bit his lower lip. "The place isn't doing well, they say, and the pay was cut. I'm gonna talk with the owner tonight. I'm not even hired yet."

  
"Then you have to change that!"

***

 

At 7 o'clock, John rushed into the club, frozen, with snow shining in his hair, and his bag hanging off his shoulder. He expected Lestrade to be there half an hour before opening, so he could speak with him, but he was disappointed; only a few people were hovering about.  
Sally was sitting behind the saloon bar's counter reading a magazine, a man (John didn't remember his name, but had seen him on the stage) was having an intense conversation with Jim, and Sherlock stepped out from the dressing room at the same time John arrived.

  
He greeted John with only a quick glance, then walked to the office and knocked on the door.  
"Still not here." Sally muttered in the same, bored voice she had used with John the week before.

  
"When will he arrive?"

  
"I'm not his secretary, am I?"

  
The woman didn't look up even when Sherlock leaned closer to her as he passed by.  
"Men's shampoo… Hmm, it fits you well." he stated.

  
That made her look up. "Excuse me?"

  
"I wonder whether Anderson's fiancée would like the smell of it or not. I mean on you."

  
"Listen, Freak! If you're trying to imply any-"

  
"I'm not trying to imply, these are real facts. Anderson arrived early. Too early. You arrived a couple minutes later. It's snowing outside. Just look at John, he parked at the next street and in walking here he got soaking wet, but your coat is dry. You walked only a few meters. Considering the fact that Anderson lives across the street, and that you both reek of the same men's shampoo, there's a 97% chance you spent the whole day together."

  
Sally's facial expressions could be read easily; surprise turned into shock at first, then simply to anger. Sherlock acknowledged this with a wide smile.  
"And what's with the other 3%?" she asked silently.

  
"The state of your knees. I'd say you scrubbed the floor. But I think we both doubt that, don't we?"

  
John was watching the little scene with curiosity. Sherlock turned suddenly and stepped next to him. He gave the shorter man a severe look.

  
"What are you doing here?" He asked.

  
"Good evening to you too."

  
"I thought you weren't coming back."

  
"So did I, to be honest."

  
"Well then? Why have you?"

  
"It's always a pleasure to know your welcome." John grunted. "How did you know I've parked at the next street? Or that I came by car?"

  
"It's obvious."

  
"Obvious?"

  
Sherlock glanced at John again, then started on a monotonous voice.

  
"You're tired; books and a half-eaten sandwich are in your bag, so you came here right from the university. That's too far from here to come by foot. So, subway or car. Your shoes are too clean; the nearest station is three streets away. You got wet along the way, you had to walk a while but not that far, it's a car then. Not yours, you can't afford it. You borrowed one, obviously, from a relative. Parents or sibling? It must a sibling, Mummy and Daddy would pay for the petrol as well. You could have parked next to the club, but you want to avoid even slightest the chance that someone might recognize your plate number. Other than Mike Stamford, no one knows about your job. You want to keep it a secret. Your bag is with you in spite of the fact that you could have left it in the car. You wanted us to believe you came on foot. Because you're a compassionate person and therefore didn't want us to know you feel ashamed about being here. You can close your mouth now." Sherlock fell silent, John hadn't even noticed that his mouth had been open the whole time.

  
"That was… terrific." he mumbled.

  
"Yes, I've heard that before, thank you."

  
"No, I mean it was terrific, fantastic even."

  
Sherlock frowned.

  
"You think?"

  
"You kidding? That was… wow."

  
The Tiger, a square-shouldered man with uncombed brown hair, crossed the club sullenly. He nodded to them before ducking through the dressing room's door.

  
"Well... thank you." Sherlock's voice was laced with surprise.

  
"Hmm?" John tried to catch his eye, but failed.

  
"People usually don't say such things."

  
"Why, what do they normal say?"

  
"Oi, Freak!" Sally called suddenly.

  
"Well there's that."

  
John gave a wide smile. "Not really a surprise." He silently replied. He watched as Sherlock walked to the counter and took several files from the woman.

  
As the time to open grew near, John put on the uniform apron and took his place behind the counter.  
The Tiger came back to the main area, sluggishly and stopped in front of John  
"Which one?"

  
This simple question was beyond John's ability to answer. The two pieces of underwear waved right in front of his eyes were too deep in his personal bubble for his mind to comprehend beyond 'underwear'.  
Sherlock looked at them boredly, and said, "The green one." But the Tiger didn't leave, and John realized he also had to choose.  
"Uhm… these are thongs."

  
"Congratulations" Sherlock sighed. "There's hope for your deductive skills yet."

  
"Green or orange?" Tiger nudged him, and brought the pieces of underwear closer.

  
"Okay, okay, green, just… get them away from me, please."

  
"Orange!" Jim appeared so suddenly next to them that John actually jumped in surprise. "You know quite well that I prefer orange."

  
"And you know quite well that I don't give a shit. I'm not gonna dance for you."

  
"Really? For whom, then?" Jim faked offence in his voice as he lifted his head to look in the Tiger's eyes.

  
"For whoever pays for it."

  
"I pay for it all the time just… in a different way."

  
"This is my workplace, not your fuckin' bedroom. You to learn some fuckin' self-control."

  
"Oh, look how grumpy you are."

  
John felt his face slowly turn red, a pale recognition gained strength in his mind. He turned away from the squabble with a mumbled excuse, no one cared enough to listen.  
He stepped to the other side of the bar and started to pull the bottles up to the shelves from boxes.

  
"So, why have you come back?" Sherlock plunked himself down on a bar stool.

  
"I need money."

  
"You don't like this place."

  
"No."

  
"Or the dancers."

  
"That's also correct."

  
"Why?"

  
Glasses settled scrupulously, napkins smoothed out. John was smiling uneasily. He straightened everything that he could grab, but Sherlock was still waiting patiently for an answer.

  
"Do you really want to know?" John asked in the end. "Okay, look. I don't want you to take this the wrong way, but you preen yourselves like brummagem wares. That guy just stuck thongs under my nose! And these women are…" He let out a nervous laugh. "Ridiculous. They pay a great sum of money for something they can never have, and you sell yourselves to them. This is all just a bit... not good."

  
Fuming resentfulness and anger. That's what John had expected, not the soft tiny smile that appeared in the corners of Sherlock's lips.

  
"Are you… are you laughing at me?" he asked.

  
"I like your attitude. People usually don't speak out like that."

  
"Mike said no secret can be kept from you, and I believe he was right."

  
"Because of the way I saw how uncomfortable you were when you first stepped in."

  
John nodded. Sherlock said nothing more. He merely stood and walked away.  
Several hours later they left the club together, with Jim in tow.

***

  
The door opened after the third knock. The smile fell from the young blonde woman's face the moment she saw the two policemen.

  
"Good evening! Ms McKenzie?" The taller officer asked. He glanced through the file he in his hands. "Stephanie McKenzie?"

  
"Uhm, no… I'll call her." She mumbled, and stepped back inside the house.  
Stephanie was shorter and chubby. A crown with the words, 'Bride To Be,' adorned her dark hair. She seemed nervous as well. They shut off the music and the partiers fell silent.

  
"Can I help you, officers?" she asked politely.

 

„We got a call about a disturbance of peace."

  
Then the men, without waiting any warning, let themselves into the house. They found themselves in front of about twelve women's shocked faces. Two women stood to the side with large, knowing smiles. Stephanie took a nervous step forward.

"May I ask who…" she started, but a man silenced her.

"Step next to the wall!"

"Excuse me?"

"I said step next to the wall!"

"Why would I?"

The shorter officer grabbed her arms, tossed her against the wall without warning, and pinned her hands with his own. As he leaned closer to her ear, he thrust his hip forward.

"This is insubordination. This requires punishment."  
The music blasted, and then Sherlock and Jim were heating up the last of Ms. McKenzie's maiden nights  
  
Getting ready to leave, Sherlock was dawdling in the bathroom. Jim knocked on the door impatiently. By the time he finally came out, Jim was gone. The rowdy group of women were hardly ready to give up on him, Sherlock was afraid he wouldn't make it alive to the car.  
He was relieved when the front door finally closed behind him.

"Don't you dare leave me alone with crazy women like those next time!" He warned Jim, who was leaning against the car.  
He had been on the phone but when he heard Sherlock approach, he hung up.  
"I told you to hurry. I have to stop by somewhere on the way back to the club."

***

  
The next two weeks brought no change, except that Irene Adler began showing up more regularly and John's presence had become common. Even though John felt he was doing a horrible job, Lestrade insisted on hiring him in the end. It was feared that if John decided to leave, Lestrade would rather chain him to the counter than let him leave.  
  
Mike and John barely saw Sherlock at the university, and even when they did, they never had time to talk. Once after bumping into Sherlock, John had to rush to a biochemistry lecture. Along the way, his phone beeped.

  
/Sit in the 4th row from the back, left side, and you'll get off. SH/

The message contained nothing more. John stopped to turn around, but Sherlock had already left.

/Why? Do you think Domville's gonna ask for repetition? JW/

/It's Wednesday morning, the middle of the week, right before lunchtime, and yesterday he found out his daughter might be pregnant. You better not be noticed, or you'll have a hard time. SH/

/Well that's… kind of you. Thanks. JW/

/4th row from the back, left side. SH/

Soon messages like these multiplied during the next days. John's phone beeped at the most unexpected moments. Every single time was unexpected for him, since he had no idea where Sherlock had gotten his number from.

***

  
/Bored. SH/

/I'm trying to work, leave me alone. JW/

/If you want to talk, just come over here. JW/

/Can't. Have to be on the stage in five minutes. The 2nd number is mine. SH/

/Then keep yourself busy somehow. Sort the Tiger's thongs out for him. JW/

/You're moody. SH/

/Tired. And don't have time to send messages, because I'M WORKING. JW/

/Since when does flirting with a 40+ woman count as work? SH/

/You can talk. JW/

John glanced toward the changing room and spotted Sherlock, who was leaning against the wall. With a dismissive movement of his hand, John ended their conversation.

'Lime, cranberry juice, vodka, and? And what? Oh, shit, Cointreau, or whatever the hell it is…'

"Here you are! Two Cosmos, milady."

"Like a pro!" Molly giggled.

"Pff!" John laughed. He placed the glasses onto the tray and replied, "Watch what you say.

 

The ceiling might crash down on our heads…"  
Molly pushed herself away from the counter smiling and quickly vanished into the crowd.  
John's eyes were burning. Sometimes, he had to close them for long moments, but it wasn't a big help. The night shifts were already wearing him out, his body protested at every given chance which he stoically ignored. No matter how much he despised it, he couldn't lose the job.

[Bei Maejor – Lights down low](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MaedWP9rbTc)

The Tiger left the stage with his shaded glasses on, and suddenly the lights went out in the whole club. John raised his head. He entertained the thought that it must had been some kind of power failure, but soon the place slowly filled with pale blue light and the music was blaring again, he leaned back against the counter. John watched Sherlock climb onto the stage with lazy but elegant steps.

 _Lil' mama want her hair pulled,_  
Legs pushed back.  
  


The long fingers ran through the dark tufts of hair.  
His jeans were worn-out, torn in some places. His fly opened, and pitch-black underwear was pulled down a ways.

 _So good, I see it in my dreams_  
She wanna arch her back when I hit it  
  


Sherlock's hips swayed in perfect union with the music, as if the notes were controlling his muscles. The tightening of sinews and his tongue as it caressed his lower lip, and a tingling feeling which made John's body tense was absolutely terrifying.  
Sherlock's chest glistened as it lifted and sank in a severe tempo. A vein twitched in Johns jaw.  
  
 _Take it slow, put it down on me._  
I said jump on it, ride like a pony.  
  
An empty chair sat in the middle of the stage.  
Sherlock stretched an arm and, without even looking, he grabbed a woman's hand. Tall, blonde, and barely legal. He pulled her closer, pushed her down into the chair and kneed on

her thighs with one leg. He let her caress his body; chest, belly, groin.

The crowd rumbled as Sherlock sat into the woman's lap – supporting himself by grabbing the backrest, so he didn't sit too heavily on her. He slipped into a rhythm easily, as if he merged together with it. Hands on his chest. His fingers lingered around the woman's shoulders, in her hair, around her throat. So defenceless, he could do anything, a n y t h i n g he wanted. John involuntarily crinkled a napkin into a ball.

When he peeled his eyes off the inviting sight to tend to a newly arrived guest, he was surprised to find it was a man. Waiting for his order seemed to be pointless. The man leaned on the counter, carefully so that he wouldn't accidentally spill a drink, and watched the show with an almost detached air about him.

Sherlock let the woman pull his underwear lower. Glancing back over his shoulder, he winked. And noticed the man. Of course he did. Amongst the rapturous army of women, the grey suit was the most striking and dramatic aspect.

 _She wanna get a kiss_  
She ain't talkin' 'bout her lips.   
Lil mama want somebody to take control.

_She says I'm out cold._   
  


Sherlock smirked as he bent down and hovered close enough to the woman's face that he was breathing in her fruit cocktail laced breath with every puff. The crowd was going wild. He turned his head just enough to make sure he still had the newcomer's attention before he leant forward and closed off the last of the space between their lips.

Her hand snapped up to his neck and pulled him even closer. She tasted like cherry, but smelt of cigarettes and cheap perfume.  
Some women screamed, more stood up and prompted them.

The man with the grey suit sighed.

  
***

  
Sherlock wanted to wipe the lipstick stains from his face with the first rag he could get when he got back to the changing room. But he didn't even get that far. Jim blocked the way with a menacing pointed finger. The Irishman was shorter by at least a foot and had it been anyone else the scene may have seemed strange, but no one was laughing.

"Don't ever you dare to do something like that again!" Jim sniffed. "Never again. Am I clear?"

"Why, didn't you like the show?" Sherlock looked at him with a severe cold calmness.

"No kissing. Rule no.1."

"See this?" Sherlock pulled out the money he tucked into his pocket. "The more exciting the show is, the more opportunity it has, the more generous the guest will be. It raises the ratio of attendance as well. If these women think they can get more than a simple illusion, they'll pay. Let them starve, wave a piece of meat and watch them spring for it. Pure logic."  
Jim nodded, slowly and tauntingly.

"Till contract something."

"This doesn't concern you at all."

"It does when I have to take you out of the show."

"It's worth the risk."

"With that logic, you could have fucked her right there on stage. They would have loved that as well."

"Oh? But what would I have for next week then?"

  
***

  
"Impressive, isn't it?" Irene Adler stroked the counter's varnished surface.

"Sorry?" John looked at her.

"The show. Sherlock."

"Oh, well, I suppose so. The audience seems to like him."

"Yes, I've noticed that."

John's laugh sounded dry. The woman's look burned his skin.

"Excuse me?" He asked, putting his apron straight.

"I've seen how you watch him. You can't hide it from me, John." She gave him a knowing smirk.

"I'm sorry, but I didn't-… are you implying that…? I-I'm, I'm not gay."

"No one ever said you were."  
  
Sherlock was wearing a purple shirt with black trousers when he showed up again. His hair was combed – not like before. His appearance was nothing like a few minutes earlier. His eyes weren't shining, the smile had vanished. He had thrown his own skin away, or had he put on a mask?

John was watching him from the corner of his eye as he approached the bar. He couldn't explain the being called Sherlock and, until that moment, he hadn't even known he wanted to.  
Irene caressed Sherlock's chest with a light movement as he passed by, paddled his chin and walked away.

Sherlock perched himself next to the man in the grey suit, who had remained leaning on the counter. The dancer stared at the blurred reflections of lights dancing on the surface.

"Thank you for the show," the grey-suited man said after a few moments of silence. "But your plan to scare me away was in vain, brother."

"Oh! Mycroft. When did you get here?" Sherlock couldn't be bothered to look at him. "You're mingling with the crowd so well I didn't notice you. What are you doing here?"

"I wonder what Mummy would say if she saw you like this."

Sherlock sighed. "If you'd like, get some pamphlets on your way out and show them to her."  
Mycroft turned, and indicated to John that he wanted to order. John finished serving two suspiciously young women, and stepped towards him.

"Scotch, please."

"So. The British government on holiday?" Sherlock watched John while he made the drink. When their eyes met it was John who broke the contact. "Or is it just a night out? Do they know, down at that stuffy club of yours, that you come here? You could bring the old boys next time." Sherlock flashed his brother smug smile.

"If you're quite finished with the petty jibes," Mycroft sighed. "We can get to the point of my visit." Sherlock waved for him to continue. "Several of my sources tell me, you're not attending Mrs. Ashford's lectures."

"She's dull and barely understands what she's talking about. I doubt you're here just to tell me this."

Mycroft spun the glass' contents with his fingers and put it back down.

"You're right." With a ceremonious movement, he pulled out a sheet of paper from his pocket, folded it out and shook it in front of Sherlock. "I came to convince you to leave this place."

"You could have saved the travelling costs by calling me."

"I did call, you didn't answer. I've told you before, you'll get full access to your account again as soon as you quit. You don't need this job."

Sally and Molly stepped next to the saloon bar together, and John put all of the orders onto their trays. By the time he finished, Sherlock and his brother were gone.  
The sheet of paper Mycroft had brought, and left on the bar top, was a short article about the Cashmere. In fact there were only a few lines, and the main topic was Lestrade's divorce ("popular night club about to close?", "the successful club owner's private life in ruins"). In the attached picture Sherlock could be seen stepping out of the Cashmere. Most likely the photographer hadn't cared about Sherlock's presence. He just wanted to record the building coruscating in the morning sunlight.

[Gin Wigmore - Kill of the Night](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lncIXl7a5fQ)

  
Jim had a soft smile as he stepped onto the stage. With acted shyness, he lowered his eyes as he heard the applause, than he waved to silence the crowd.

"My ladies, I'm afraid I've got bad news. The show is about to end, but I can see, you're still on fire."

John grunted scornfully.

"We'll need a solution for this problem, won't we?"

Jim looked around thoughtfully. Slowly, he loosened his belt.  
The women in the club screamed all at once, Jim laughed. His fingers ran up along his belly to his neck, through his hair and back down. He was observing the reactions with undisguised enjoyment, and his movements were like whippings.  
Sharp, severe whippings that wouldn't cause bloody scars.  
John stood next to Sally, who was watching the dance without interest.

"What a jerk" she grunted.

"Can you stay here while I take this out?" John held up a garbage bag then, without waiting for her response, he left.

John crossed through the narrow aisle, and went through the back door. He took a deep breath of the frosty air as he stepped into the alley behind the club. He didn't want to go back in. Instead he remained outside a few minutes later, lost in a fantasy about sneaking back to his car and never coming back.

In that short time he heard an argument breakout somewhere nearby. It was the least John cared about. Bar brawls were common in this part of time. He turned to go return to his post inside, when he heard the sound of rough punches that made him stop. He heard it again and again and again, then a shaky moan along with the sound of a body hitting the floor.  
As silent as John could, he peaked around the large skip towards the alleyway opening.  
  
Jim was perched at the edge of the stage with his legs wide open, a playful smile on his face as he watched a woman softly caressing his groin. When he stood up again, he forced out some disappointed sighs.  
He ruled them. Left the fanned flames behind to rage. He didn't even look back.  
A young man was lying on the ground, covered in blood. The dim lights made it hard to see, but John knew he wasn't from the club's crew. He had never seen him before.  
The other man bent down, closer and grabbed him by his shirt collar. He said something to him, but it was too quiet for John to hear.  
The younger leaned against the wall as he tried to escape toward the end of the alley. It was doubtful if he could reach it or not.  
  
Jim just got off the stage when John snuck back to the bar.  
The Tiger stood next to the stairs, and when Jim walked towards him he smirked. As the lights went out, Jim lifted the Tiger's hands to his lips. John tried to ignore the thought that he might be kissing the young boy's blood from the Tiger's skin.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for my beta, DWforlife!


End file.
